Page 21 of Burning Her Beautiful

“You ask me to risk your life on a public stage.”

“I risk my dignity each time nobles ogle.” I fold my arms. “This time let that gaze become a dagger turned on them.”

He drags a hand through his hair. “If the rune fails?—”

“It will not. Sael and I mastered the resonance pathways. I trust our craft.”

He stops pacing. His expression softens, though tension still hums. “Your courage terrifies me more than any blade.”

“My courage mirrors yours.” I reach for his hand, threading our fingers. “We step together, or we do not move at all.”

He brings my knuckles to his lips. Heat flares in my chest, tempered by purpose. “Then we prepare,” he says, strength returning to his voice. “Garrik arranges the collar swap, I weave the shatter runes, you rehearse the fall if the podium collapses.”

We share a tight smile at the absurdity of rehearsing disasters. Shadows lengthen and lanterns flicker on, bathing us in gold.

“Rest tonight,” he commands gently, though weariness cloaks his own shoulders. “I will not disturb your space.”

“My space is here, beside the storm,” I answer before I can weigh the implications. His eyes flare, and for a moment desire pulses between us, thick and hot. Yet neither of us steps forward. Duty loops reins around our ankles.

“Tomorrow,” he says, voice like sand and silk.

“Tomorrow.” I squeeze his hand once, then slip away down the hall.

Back in my chamber I light a single taper and sit at the desk, quill poised.

Pages fill with diagrams—collar hinge design, rune sequence to invert poison flow, contingency signals.

I lose track of time, ink smudging my fingertips.

When at last I set the quill down, moonlight spills across the parchment, revealing how late the night has crept.

I stand and stretch aching shoulders. In the mirror, my reflection startles me. Determination steels features once soft with youth. Does rebellion age or refine? Perhaps both. I braid my hair, slipping the shard deeper as if my heart might shatter without its steady hum.

Sleep comes in fits. I dream of crystal pillars cracking, only to bloom with vines that sling sapphire shards into the sky.

In the chaos, Varok and I balance on a collapsing dais, laughing as thunder sings around us.

I wake sweating, yet strangely calm, because even nightmares paint hope now—hope that marble will crack and wild roots will flourish.

Dawn’s first glow crowns the spires when Lys taps on my door. She enters carrying a linen bundle. Inside lies a tunic of forest-green silk, embroidered at the cuffs with copper thread in a motif of entwined vines.

“You will not wear chains,” she declares. “But if they drape you in one, this beneath will remind you who you are.”

Emotion rises too sharp for speech. I hug her hard. She steps back, wiping her eyes.

“May the wind favor your note today,” she whispers.

“May it carry yours farther,” I reply.

She leaves me with the tunic and renewed strength.

I dress slowly, tying the leather girdle with hands that no longer shake.

I slip the tunic over fitted trousers, the copper embroidery catching the dawn light like sparks.

At the throat I fasten the amethyst pendant Varok gifted me, a stone that once belonged to a demon queen who chose peace over conquest. The irony pleases me.

As I fasten my boots, Garrik’s coded hum drifts through the vent—success, smith contacted, collar ready. Relief eases the tension.

I stride into the morning corridors alive with purpose.

Nobles flit like jeweled birds yet hush when I pass.

Some avert their gaze; others stare with new respect.

I keep my shoulders squared and my steps even, repeating a silent mantra: cracked ice, steady wind.

At the grand stair I pause, looking toward the spire where Varok prepares his counter-runes.

A shard of sunrise glints on the window of his strategy chamber, and though I cannot see him, I sense his presence like warm pressure at my back.

I step onto the first stair, spine straight, ready to endure whatever spectacle Sarivya’s allies design.

Because beyond humiliation waits freedom, woven from courage and tuned to resonance stones vibrating beneath every inch of Galmoleth.

I will walk into the public eye and let them fasten their symbol of control at my throat, knowing it houses our trickery.

I will stand tall when Varok shatters it, letting shards rain like petals—proof that tyrants can craft no cage my song cannot break.

My heart quickens, yet each beat speaks a promise.

I walk not as a captive but as the storm’s ally, grounded by the alliances laced through laundry shafts and mine tunnels, fueled by a demon’s fierce love and sharpened by my own unyielding will.

Storms may crack pillars, but roots run deeper, and the wind carries truth beyond stone walls.

Today I carry that wind in my lungs. I take another step, and the palace begins to tremble with possibilities.